Details |
Amrita Valan Poem
Christmas meant a party
At the company club.
It was fun guessing whose dad
Would dress up as Santa Claus.
As we gathered, the carols played
And one by one, chaperones led
Unwilling boys to blushful girls
We had to dance, flushing with discomfort.
But oh! the food, was so good.
It was always pizzas, burgers and cole slaw
And Coke and ice creams too. In the
India of the eighties that was
Colonial Christmas fare.
Under the tree awaited our gifts.
I was thrilled with my double digest
murder mysteries. My best friend got
A set of badminton racquets.
Our memories replete with past
Christmas treats, the glow on our faces
The Holly and Mistletoe wreaths
Christmas was a day to treasure indeed
Even today recollections are a pleasure
That warm my heart with bliss.
Copyright © Amrita Valan | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Amrita Valan Poem
Slight chill to the mist laden air
A clinging to warmth, homebound lairs.
Bring down the trunks of warm woollies,
Lay out soft scarves, gay similes.
Sneakers come out, sandals go in,
November enters cold and clean.
Whispering frosty sweet nothings
Migratory birds taking wing.
It’s a time for hot chocolate
Snuggling under cosy blankets
Taking a book to bed to read
November’s heart in ink, to bleed.
With a Mont blanc pen or onscreen,
Edit the draft, and send it in.
Old soul November’s days have rhyme
Hushed melodies yearning to chime.
Month before advent, wintry Lethe
Take stock of life, hold on to myth.
Copyright © Amrita Valan | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Amrita Valan Poem
I love it,
Our morning ritual of tea,
Just you and me.
But the milkman, and the maid
The kids wailing,
Like the newly awoken dead
Won’t have it.
Gotterdammerung
They scream.
Or something
That sounds
Just like it.
Tea gone cold.
The morning
Feels old.
Copyright © Amrita Valan | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Amrita Valan Poem
Christmas meant a party
At the company club.
It was fun guessing whose dad
Would dress up as Santa Claus.
As we gathered, the carols played
And one by one, chaperones led
Unwilling boys to blushful girls
We had to dance, flushing with discomfort.
But oh! the food, was so good.
It was always pizzas, burgers and cole slaw
And Coke and ice creams too. In the
India of the eighties that was
Colonial Christmas fare.
Under the tree awaited our gifts.
I was thrilled with my double digest
murder mysteries. My best friend got
A set of badminton racquets.
Our memories replete with past
Christmas treats, the glow on our faces
The Holly and Mistletoe wreaths
Christmas was a day to treasure indeed
Even today recollections are a pleasure
That warm my heart with bliss.
Copyright © Amrita Valan | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Amrita Valan Poem
I am so chagrinned
Why don't I ever recall?
The morning after the night
Before
.. Always
The rising
After the fall?
My chignon comes loose
Ebony, sun streaked vista
In slumberous eyes...
Arms akimbo, yawn of
Relief and delight
Lashes dilate
Crepiscular pain
Washed away by morning dew
Time and again this is the way
Pain and sufferings dissolve
When sunlight hits my world
Warms the blood inside my veins.
It is fantastic optics
Tripping on fantasy divine
Thr threshold of limitations
Surpassed
Into endless possibilities
Of another day divine
I step, i stumble I trip
And tumble
Over the line.
Copyright © Amrita Valan | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Amrita Valan Poem
Laughing inside I wiped my
Coffee rimmed lips
With my shirt sleeve
A cat drunk on cream
Finally at peace.
We all know
Days like these
Nothing matters
When nothing makes
Sense anymore
Questions don't always have
Answers. Sometimes we
Are faced with answers
We don't have questions for.
And then. You give up hogging
The control panels and let
Light touches on the joystick
Keep yourself from crashing
A little bit of free fall
Does wonders for the soul
Killing terror with terror.
Oh the safety net
If it exists
Is only our own minds
Bouncing back flexible
Trampoline.
The springy ground under
Our worn out soles.
So lick up the surreptitious cream
Upon the lips of life
Dream on
And share the dream
Laugh with pain
And pen the hurt
Till the quill is a surreal
Tool
And prophesies on its own,
Frenzied beautiful and devilish
Bold.
© Amrita Valan 2020
Copyright © Amrita Valan | Year Posted 2021
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